He knew from her outburst the first night that her meals were heavily controlled, but he didn't think it was as bad as she said it was. Breakfast was cold oats, no sugar, fruit, or dressings of any kind; for lunch and dinner, she was only served buckwheat cutlets.
The portions always seemed ridiculously small, which caused Mikhail to notice how frail Anastasia was. He hadn't seen it in the dim light of the evening during their first meeting, and it was hidden with how bountifully she dressed.
The sleeves of her dresses went past her knuckles, and multiple layers of skirts hide a dangerously small frame.
Mikhail watched her eat her dinner at the end of the first day, unable to keep himself from asking.
"When was the last time you had hot food, Anastasia?"
She looked up from her dinner with wide eyes, shocked by both his breaking of the silence and the nature of his question.
"I don’t remember," she said quietly, with no emotion in her voice, leaving nothing to betray her feelings on the matter. Mikhail's mind spun dangerously as he grappled with the intense shattering of his preconceived notions of Anastasia.
He had spent the last fifteen years hating her, despising her very name and image, and swearing revenge for killing his mother. The person in front of him was someone else entirely.
Yes, her cage was a ten-room suite with heavily decorated golden walls, but she resembled someone who’s been kept in a bare room and starved.
The pair had spent most of their time apart, he'd imagined that she was taking advantage of the fact that he had not demanded any lessons yet.
He'd pulled some information from the messenger on the way to the palace; most of Anastasia's schedule was set by her tutors. If they commanded her to be up at six in the morning and recite lessons until nine in the evening, then that’s what she would do.
The Tsar and Tsarina had remained mainly detached from their daughter's schedule, preferring to commune daily with the priests assigned to her and nothing else.
The Tsar had issued the order that pulled her from the court and was the one who dictated her meals, but they had minimal contact with their daughter.
Even Alexei was increasingly distraught over how removed his sister had become over the years, but he looked up to his father too much in the matters of ruling an empire to question how he ruled his children. His blind faith was a danger to them all.
Anastasia finished what was left of her meager dinner before she stood and gathered her skirts.
"What time shall I escort you to services tomorrow,Your Grace?" Mikhail found himself taunting her just to see an emotion — any emotion — on her face and cursed himself for it.
"I do not attend the Orthodox services with the boyars and the court," Anastasia said quietly, refusing to meet Mikhail's gaze. Something about his presence deeply unsettled her in a very different way from how she was used to feeling about her various tutors.
Mikhail scoffed, "How, pray tell, did you get out of that one?"
"Ten years ago, I convinced my family that I would take services privately with my tutors," she shrugged, "I said that I thought it would be best, God forbid that I be overcome by the Lord and release my magic during a service with nearly three hundred members of the nobility. A few months ago, I told my tutors I’d take services alone."
Her voice lifted near the end, and Mikhail saw the beginnings of a smirk on her face. He peered up and saw her eyes, that piercing blue fire, begin to flicker alight once more. The very sight made him want to push her harder, to fan the flame.
"Did that ever happen?" He grinned, leaning back in the chaise and sliding an arm behind his head.
"Didwhatever happen, Mikhail?"
He chuckled at her stubborn use of his name, "Were you everovercomeby the Lord during time with your priests?"
Anastasia felt heat rush to her cheeks as she stared at him, shocked at the unabashed way he talked to her. It took her only a moment to regain her composure.
"Not once," she raised an eyebrow, "I guess none of them were very proficient."
"That's a damn shame, Your Grace."
"The stable master, on the other hand, proved well taught."
Mikhail sputtered audibly, sitting up and nearly falling out of his chair. Anastasia laughed, throwing her head back in an unrivaled gaiety, a sound that immediately transfixed Mikhail and made him feel like a man starving with a thirst for more.
He chuckled, shaking his head and looking up at the Grand Duchess. She was still smiling, and Mikhail began to scold himself internally for how much he loved that smile. The realization flooded over him like a bucket of cold water.
The smile quickly dropped from his face, sobering up immediately as he was caught in an intense wave of self-hatred and shame for finding even the smallest of joys in the company of his mother's murderer.
